A Woman Is No Man

by Etaf Rum

  Instead Isra willed herself to make a request she had been brewing in her mind but had been too scared to ask: “I was hoping maybe you could teach me how to navigate Fifth Avenue. Sometimes I want to take Deya for a walk in the stroller, but I’m afraid I’ll get lost.”

  Adam put his fork down and looked up at her. “Go out to Fifth Avenue on your own? Surely that’s out of the question.”

  Isra stared at him.

  “You want to take a stroll down the block? Sure. But there’s no reason for you to be out on Fifth Avenue alone. A young girl like you on the streets? Someone would take advantage of you. So many corrupt people in this country. Besides, we have a reputation here. What will Arabs say if they see my young wife wandering the streets alone? You need anything, my parents will get it for you.” He pushed himself up from the table. “Fahmeh? Do you understand?”

  She couldn’t stop looking at his eyes. How red they were. For a moment she thought perhaps he had been drinking, but she quickly dismissed it. Drinking sharaab was forbidden in Islam, and Adam would never commit such a sin. No, no. He worked too hard, that was all. He must be getting sick.

  “Do you understand?” he said again, more slowly.

  “Yes,” she whispered.

  “Good.”

  Isra stared at her plate. She thought back to her silly hopes, before coming to America, that she might have more freedom here. She had the familiar urge to break one of the plates on the sufra, but instead she dug her fingers into her thighs, squeezed tight. She breathed and breathed until the familiar throb of rebellion dissipated. She was only nineteen, she reasoned. Adam must be afraid for her safety. Surely he would give her more freedom when she got older. And then a new hope occurred to her: perhaps his overprotectiveness was out of love. Isra wasn’t sure if that was one of the things love made you do, possess someone. But the possibility made a warm feeling rise up inside her. She put her hands on her stomach and allowed herself a small smile, a rare moment of peace.

  Deya

  Winter 2008

  Deya was convinced she was dreaming. She stood in the center of the bookstore, staring at Sarah, stunned. There was so much to say, and she opened her mouth, searching for the right words, but none came to her.

  “Let’s sit,” Sarah said with a wave of her hand. Her voice was strong, declamatory.

  Deya followed her down the bookstore, mesmerized. She glanced at all the books, hundreds of them, covering most of the exposed brick walls. There was a café bar at the end of the room, with coffee tables arranged around it, and a few people sat with books and cups of coffee in hand. She followed Sarah to the corner of the café, where they settled opposite each other on a pair of chairs by a window. The smell of coffee and the overcast winter sun through the window created a warm glow between them.

  “I’m sorry I couldn’t tell you who I was over the phone,” Sarah began. “I was afraid you’d tell my parents I called.”

  “I’m confused,” Deya said, sitting up. “I thought you were in Palestine. How long have you been back? Why don’t Teta and Seedo know you’re here?”

  “That’s a long story,” Sarah said in a soft voice. “It’s part of the reason I reached out.”

  Deya blinked at her. “What’s the rest?”

  “I know they want you to marry soon. I wanted you to know you have choices.”

  “Choices?” Deya could feel herself start to laugh. “Is that a joke?”

  Sarah smiled a small smile. “No, Deya. Quite the opposite, actually.”

  Deya opened her mouth, but nothing came out at first. Then she said, “But why would you come all the way back to New York for that? And why now? I don’t get it.”

  “I’ve wanted to see you for years, but I had to wait until you were old enough to understand. When I heard you’ve been sitting with suitors, I was afraid you’d get married before I had a chance to talk to you. But now that you’re here, I don’t know where to begin.”

  “Is it about my parents?”

  There was a pause, and Sarah looked out the window. “Yes, them. And a lot of other things too.”

  Deya studied Sarah’s expression. She could see from the look in her eyes, the way she stared at the glass, there was something safeguarded. “Why should I trust you?”

  “I have no reason to lie to you,” Sarah said. “You don’t have to believe me, though. All I ask is that you listen to me before you decide for yourself.”

  “Well, I don’t trust anyone.”

  Sarah smiled and leaned back into her chair. “Not so long ago, I was just like you,” she said. “I remember what it was like being raised in that house. How could I forget? I understand what you’re going through, and I want to help you make the right decisions, or at least let you know you have options.”

  “You mean about getting married?”

  Sarah nodded.

  “Do you think I have a choice? I don’t! You, of all people, should understand that.”

  “I do understand. That’s why I had to see you.”

  “I don’t see how you can help me,” Deya said. “If you could, you would have helped yourself.”

  “But I did help myself.”

  “How?”

  Sarah spoke slowly, a half smile on her lips. “I haven’t been in Palestine this entire time, or at all, in fact. I never got married.”

  Fareeda

  Summer 1991

  That summer, Fareeda and Khaled decided to take Omar back home in search of a bride. There was no shortage of Muslim Palestinian girls in Brooklyn, but Fareeda refused to marry her son to one of them. No, no, no. Everyone knew that girls raised in America blatantly disregarded their Arab upbringings. Some of them walked around town in tight clothes and a face full of makeup. Some dated behind their parents’ back. Some weren’t even virgins! The thought alone made Fareeda shudder. Not that Omar was a virgin, necessarily. But it was different for a man, of course. You couldn’t prove whether or not he was a virgin. No one’s reputation was on the line. She could hear her mother’s voice now: “A man leaves the house a man and comes back a man. No one can take that away from him.” But a woman was a fragile thing. This was precisely why Fareeda couldn’t bear the thought of raising more girls in this country. Wasn’t it enough she had Sarah to worry about? And now Deya, too? She prayed Isra wasn’t pregnant with another girl.

  Fareeda held on to this hope as she boarded the plane, walking uneasily behind Omar and Khaled. She couldn’t believe it had been fifteen years since they first came to America. When they first landed in New York, Khaled had promised it was only a temporary situation, that once they made enough money they would gather their children and return home to die on holy land. But as the years passed, Fareeda knew that day would never come. She did what she could to ease this truth. She made sure her children knew Arabic, that Sarah was raised conservatively, and that her sons, as Americanized as they were becoming, still ended up doing what was expected of Palestinian men: marrying Palestinian girls and passing down the traditions to their own children. If she didn’t preserve their culture, their identity, then she would lose them. She knew this in her core.

  That had been her biggest fear lately, especially watching Omar and Ali come and go as they pleased. But that’s just the way things were, Fareeda thought, studying the Manhattan skyline as the plane climbed into the air, her hand clutching Khaled’s. There was nothing she could do but marry Omar off before it was too late.

  Two months later they returned to New York with Nadine.

  “Congratulations,” Isra murmured when she greeted them at the front door, looking first to Nadine’s face and then to the floor.

  Fareeda could tell Nadine’s dazzling smile and bright blue eyes intimidated Isra. She had expected this. In fact, she had planned it. Not to hurt Isra, no, but to show her what womanhood should look like. As soon as Fareeda reached Palestine, she had made it clear to all the mothers that she was not looking for another Isra. The last time she had searched for a bride, she had asked
for a shy, modest woman who knew how to cook and clean, wanting the opposite of all the disrespectful women she had become used to in America. But this time, she had asked for a lively girl. They needed some good spirits around the house, Fareeda thought, glancing at Isra’s meek smile. Perhaps Nadine’s presence would even force Isra to grow up and start acting like a woman.

  “Be sure to put your foot down,” Fareeda warned Omar that evening while Nadine was upstairs, settling in. She had whispered those very same words the day the couple signed the marriage contract in Nadine’s sala, and again on the night of the wedding ceremony, but it didn’t hurt to remind him. Omar was practically an American, staring at her with his large, dopey eyes, oblivious to the workings of the world. So typical of men these days. Why, when she had first married Khaled, he would slap her if she even raised her eyes off the ground—pop after pop, until she was as quiet as a mouse. She remembered the early days of her marriage, years before they came to America, when she had lived in fear of his hostile moods, his slaps and kicks if she dared to talk back. She remembered how he would enter their shelter every night after plowing the fields, enraged at the quality of their life—the hardness of the mattress they slept on, the sparseness of food, the aching of his bones—only to take his anger out on her and the children. Some days he’d beat them for even the slightest confrontation, while other days he’d say nothing, grinding his teeth, fury bubbling in his eyes.

  “Forget all this American nonsense about love and respect,” Fareeda said to Omar now, turning to make sure Isra was setting the table. “You need to make sure our culture survives, and that means teaching a woman her place.”

  They ate dinner all together for the first time in months. The men sat at one end of the table, the women at the other. Fareeda couldn’t remember the last time she’d had all her sons on one sufra. She watched Isra filling Adam’s bowl with rice, Nadine passing Omar a glass of water. As it should be! Now all she had left was to marry off Ali and Sarah. She looked over at her daughter, who sat slouched with teenage gracelessness. It shouldn’t be too long now before that burden was off Fareeda’s shoulders. She was tired and—though she would never admit it—eagerly awaiting the day she could stop worrying about her family.

  The men were lost in conversation—something about opening a new convenience store for Omar, who needed a steady income. Fareeda eyed them. “Maybe Adam could open the store,” she said. “Help his brother out.”

  She could see Adam’s face redden. “I’d love to help,” he said, putting down his spoon. “But I barely have enough time to run Father’s store. Between paying the bills and taking care of the family . . .” He stopped, looked over to Isra. “I never see my own family. I’m always working.”

  “I know, son,” Khaled said, reaching out to pat Adam’s shoulder. “You do so much for us.”

  “Still,” Fareeda said, reaching for another piece of pita, “your father is getting old. It’s your duty to help.”

  “I am helping,” Adam said, his voice suddenly cold. “But where will I find the time to open up another store? And what about Omar? Why can’t he take on some responsibility?”

  “Where’s all this animosity coming from?” Fareeda smacked her lips, waving her greasy fingers around the kitchen table. “What’s wrong with helping the family out? You’re the eldest son. It’s your responsibility.” She bit into a stuffed squash. “Your duty.”

  “I understand that, Mother,” Adam said. “But what about Omar and Ali? Why am I the one doing everything?”

  “That’s not true,” Fareeda said. “Your brothers do what they can.”

  “Omar barely puts in any hours at the deli, and Ali spends all day ‘studying,’ according to him, while I run the store on my own. You need to give my brothers some responsibilities too. You’re spoiling them.”

  “He’s right,” Khaled said, reaching for a drumstick. “You are spoiling them.”

  Fareeda straightened. “So now it’s my fault? Of course, blame it on the woman!” Her eyes shifted to Khaled. “Let’s not forget who the real backbone of this family is.”

  Khaled shot her a hard look. “What are you saying, woman?”

  She could see Nadine eyeing her from across the table, so she refrained from saying what she would have usually said, reminding Khaled of all she had done for their family.

  Though more than thirty years had passed since Khaled and Fareeda married, she still remembered those early days with resentment: the many ways he had hurt and disappointed her, his sudden and immense anger, the violence. She had been so young, less than half his age, and in the first days of their marriage she had always reminded herself of her subordinate role, submitting to his temperament for fear of being beaten. But no matter how quiet she was, how hard she tried to please, many nights ended with a beating. Of course her father had beaten her growing up, but it was nothing like this: beatings that left her face black and blue, her ribs so sore they ached when she breathed, an arm so badly sprained she couldn’t carry water for weeks.

  Then one night a neighbor told her that Khaled was an alcoholic, that he purchased a liter of whiskey most mornings from the corner dukan, and that he sipped on the bottle until he got home. Each liter cost fifteen shekels, almost half of Khaled’s daily earnings. Something inside Fareeda had snapped. A liter of whiskey a day! Fifteen shekels! And after everything she had done for him, scraping to feed their children in the refugee camp, slaving in the fields, bearing him sons, even . . . She stopped, trembling at the memory. No. Enough was enough.

  “I won’t allow you to spend our hard-earned money on sharaab,” Fareeda had told Khaled that night, her eyes so wide she knew she must have looked possessed. He wouldn’t look at her, but she stared him down. “I’ve endured many things for your sake”—her voice quivered—“but I won’t endure this. From now on, I want to know what you do with our money.”

  The next thing she knew, Khaled had slapped her. “Who do you think you are talking to me like that?”

  Fareeda stared at him. “I’m the reason this family has food to eat.” Her voice was surprisingly clear. She didn’t recognize it as her own.

  Another slap. “Shut your mouth, woman!”

  “I won’t shut my mouth unless you stop drinking,” she said, unwavering. “If you don’t, I’ll tell your children the truth! I’ll tell them that we barely have enough food because their father is an alcoholic. I’ll tell everyone! Your reputation will be ruined, and your children will never respect you.”

  Khaled had shifted back, his head heavy with whiskey, his knees unable to hold him. He lifted his head and let out a shuddering exhale. When he opened his mouth to speak, nothing came. If it wasn’t for his pride, Fareeda was certain he would have cried. From that day on, Khaled had brought home his wages to her. Something essential between them had shifted.

  “Oh, for goodness sake!” Fareeda said now, not meeting Khaled’s eyes. “Let’s not get into this mess in front of our new daughter-in-law.” She bit into a chicken thigh and turned to face Adam. “Listen, son, you’ve been handling everything for years. Your brothers know nothing about business. It’ll only take you a few months to get the store up and running, and then Omar can take over.”

  Adam sighed. He looked over to Omar, who sat quietly at the opposite end of the table, eyes fixed on his plate. After a moment had passed, Omar lifted his head to find Adam still watching him and, flushing deeply, said, “Thank you, brother.”

  Fareeda refilled Omar’s plate. “We’re family,” she said. “There’s no need to thank your brother. Why, if everyone went around saying thank you for every little thing they were supposed to do, we wouldn’t get anything done, would we?” She scooped a spoonful of rice onto Ali’s plate. “Eat up, son. Look at how thin you’re getting.” Then she turned to Nadine, who sat with her hands in her lap. “You too, dear. Come on.” Nadine smiled and reached for her spoon.

  Fareeda could feel Isra staring at her. “You need to eat, too, Isra. You haven’t gained mu
ch weight this pregnancy.”

  Isra nodded and refilled her plate. Though Fareeda hadn’t mentioned it, she was worried about the gender. Why hadn’t Isra asked the doctor for an ultrasound while she was gone? Because she was an idiot, Fareeda thought, scooping another serving of rice onto her plate. But she should stop worrying and enjoy this moment with her sons. Yes, she should savor it. It was a reminder of how far she had come since that day. How long had it been—thirty years? Longer? She’d tried so hard to forget. For a long time Fareeda had believed she was cursed, haunted by the jinn. But then Adam had been born, and then Omar and Ali, and her memory of what happened began to fade, bit by bit, until it was almost gone. Like a bad dream. But then Sarah was born—a daughter—and the memories Fareeda thought she had put to rest burned a hole inside her anew. How much she hated looking at Sarah, how much she hated to remember. She had hoped her memories would fade when Sarah got older. Only they hadn’t. And now it was Deya who reminded her.

  Please, God, Fareeda thought, staring at Isra’s belly. Don’t let this one be another girl.

  Isra

  Winter 1991

  It was a girl.

  The delivery room was quiet, and Isra lay beneath the thin hospital sheet, cold and bare, staring at the midnight December sky though the window. She longed for company, but Adam had said he needed to return to work. She had hoped that children would bring them closer, but they had not. In fact, it seemed as if each pregnancy pushed him farther away, as if the more her belly grew, the wider the space between them became.

  She began to cry. What was it that moved her to tears? She wasn’t sure. Was it that she had disappointed Adam once again? Or was it because she couldn’t be happy as she looked at her newborn daughter?

  She was still crying when Adam returned to visit her the next morning. “What’s wrong?” he asked, startling her.